Caltrops
by littleblackdog
Summary: A collection of snippets and one-shots from my "Snare" alternate universe.  Fenris/m!Hawke.
1. Abandoned

_Misfired comment fill from the k!meme._

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><p>Hawke shifted slightly on his perch, crouching with elbows on knees and his chin on his hands. It was going to be dawn soon, if the faint pinkness in the eastern sky were any indication, and still no sign of the damned client.<p>

At least sunrise would be pretty, painting the wide, endless sky and reflecting in the glass-calm water of the harbour. There weren't many good things to say about a long, cold, wasted night lurking in Kirkwall's stinking dockyards, but the view was nice.

Varric was going to owe him a drink for this. Possibly a whole cask, if Hawke caught some hideous bout of the sniffles again. Fucking prissy, entitled nobles and their selfish _requirements_— Hawke didn't generally meet with clients, except in special circumstances. The deal was, you came to see the dwarf, you explained the target, and the offer was hashed out (usually with a reasonable down-payment). If the contract was accepted, your problems disappeared, and you _paid the blighted dwarf and were on your way_.

He wasn't _built_for actually dealing with the clientele, especially not the self-important (and thus usually ridiculously wealthy) ones. He knew what he was and what he did, and he knew what kind of man that made him, but by the Maker's sanctified arsehole, some of the nobles up Hightown way were real monsters. Even those who weren't horrifically cold-blooded wanted to be treated like they shit sovereigns and farted the Chant of Light, and honestly, his patience couldn't be bothered with that either.

But this sodding Harimann woman was truly testing his self-restraint (and Varric's, since she wasn't the most agreeable or respectful lady to speak with, apparently). She wanted to meet, to see him in the flesh (like a prize hound or a cut of meat) before a single copper was dragged through her purse strings, and now she'd _stood him up_.

To the Void with that, then. As if his time was less important than the whims of some pinch-faced harpy, who refused to entertain the simple rules of their operation. Varric could tell her the bloody contract was rejected, and she could find some other stupid son of a bitch to do her dirty work.

Unfolding himself, stretching out his numbed limbs in the pre-dawn chill, Hawke rubbed a crick out of his neck and started off across the rooftops, back towards home.

* * *

><p>The warm, crackling fire waiting in the grate when he slipped back into his tenement was a knee-weakening blessing. Maker, it felt like an age since he'd been home, but he still spared only a moment or two of flexing his fingers in the heat before slinking off towards the bedroom.<p>

As silent and as quick as he was, and as much as the thought appealed to both his mischievous and amorous sides, it would be a spectacularly bad idea to try and sneak into bed beside Fenris. A fist through the ribcage seemed like a particularly unpleasant way to end an already shitty night.

Silently stripping down to his skin, Hawke listened to his lover's slow, steady breathing (with a low rumble on the inhale that was _not a snore_on pain of death). With this blighted Harimann business, and Fenris just back from a mercenary contract out in some backwater in the Wildervale, how long had it been since they'd last had some quiet time together? A week? No, by now it was more than a fortnight.

He wasn't even thinking solely of the last time they'd had sex, either. It had been just as long since they'd simply kissed (more than a brief peck to mark comings and goings), or practiced Fenris' reading, or even shared a meal and a private conversation. How long had it been since they'd just lain together in a warm nest of quilts?

_Too long_ was the only answer that mattered, and Hawke intended to rectify this tragedy immediately.

Padding over and leaning against one of the bedposts (the left one at the foot of the bed, farthest from his lover's tightly curled, sleeping form), Hawke whispered into the dark.

"Every single blanket," he said softly, barely louder than a breath. "I suppose my taut, lily-white arse has to freeze while you play caterpillar? Or is there room for two in your charming little cocoon?"

As he'd hoped, the quiet words were enough to rouse without lighting up the room with a vivid, blue glow.

Snuffling quietly, Fenris lashed out lazily with one arm, freeing a corner of the quilts. When his voice grumbled up, it was muffled and slurred with sleep, and adorable enough to plaster a ridiculous grin across Hawke's face (an expression he was very lucky Fenris could not see). "Hm… perhaps. Keep your icy toes to yourself."

"On my honour," Hawke replied, utterly dripping with sincerity. Then he proceeded to slither under the gloriously cosy blankets, burrowing close to his beloved, pliant elf, and twisted his legs just right to press his feet between Fenris' calves.

Hissing furiously, Fenris tried to wriggle away, only to be caught up in Hawke's sinuous embrace. Whatever he was spiting in Arcanum didn't exactly sound complimentary.

Trying his damnedest not to laugh (he really did want to sleep in this bed for a few hours, preferably with company), Hawke pressed a kiss against the back of Fenris' neck as the thrashing subsided to a low, simmering fury. "Mm, Maker, you're lovely. Are you through extolling my many virtues in your melodious mother tongue?"

"Hardly." Oh, he sounded positively _surly_. "You do know you stink of smoke and sea water?"

"Evening at the docks," he murmured by way of explanation. "Not the most romantic cologne, I know, but I've missed the feel of you."

There was silence for a moment, until finally Fenris heaved a long sigh, and Hawke felt long, callused hands sliding over the arm he had slung over his lover's chest. "You are incredibly infuriating." _I missed you, as well._

Humming in agreement, Hawke nuzzled the silky soft hair at Fenris' nape, letting sleep creep into the edges of his mind. Despite the knowledge that he'd still have to deal with whatever bullshit Lady Harimann's absence likely stirred up, Hawke was content. Blissful, even.

He was home, in the finest and sexiest of company, and for the moment at least, things were absolutely perfect.

END


	2. Fear and Trembling

_Snare minifill, set between Snare and Rook. Fenris' POV. _

_Callum is distraught, and Fenris gives him a hug. More angst and introspection than that straightforward prompt might imply.  
><em>

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><p>Fenris could smell blood before he even knocked on the door to Varric's suite— metallic, earthy, and familiar. It was more than enough to prickle the hairs at the nape of his neck, but considering the company he expected waited for him inside, it not enough to push him from wary to battle-ready. Callum often smelled faintly of blood, with an odd bitterness beneath, which Fenris had learned was the tang of a poison he preferred… but this seemed too heady, too strong an odour to be typical.<p>

Lyrium hummed through his flesh, sensitive to his mood, as he lifted one hand to knock on the thick wood, keeping to the side of the doorway as a precaution. If something were amiss, he wouldn't risk being trampled or knocked back by potential enemies inside.

There was a pause, almost too long, before the scrape of the latch unlocking made him tense. The door cracked open, and Varric's face when he appeared on the other side was drawn and unusually pale. "Oh, elf. Yeah, come on in."

The stink of blood was even denser when he stepped inside the room, and Fenris felt something constrict painfully in his chest at the sight of Callum seated limply on the end of Varric's short table, stripped down to his shirtsleeves with arms and chest soaked in dark, deadly crimson.

Callum's head snapped up as he entered (conscious, alert, _alive_), and Fenris saw his eyes were strange mirrors of the carnage staining his shirt, bloodshot and troubled. "It's not mine," he said immediately, hoarsely, and Fenris felt his heart begin to beat again. "Not a scratch on me, love."

A few strides brought him to Callum's side, less than an arm's reach away. It was closer than he allowed with anyone else, though not nearly so close as he allowed this particular man in private. The feeling of another body encroaching into his physical space was mildly discomforting, as usual; it stirred memories both agonizing and now blissful, sending his mind scrambling to make sense of the sensations.

"Should I ask?" he said carefully, studying the tense lines around Callum's mouth and between his brows. Blood was not out of the ordinary, but this haunted look was both unusual and worrisome. Nearby, Varric was removing an iron kettle from its hook over his fire and pouring what looked like plain, steaming water into a large ceramic bowl sitting at the other end of the table.

The dwarf set the kettle aside once this was done, then slid the bowl slowly down towards Callum. "Here, Hawke. Probably too hot right now, but give it a minute."

Fenris watched Callum's throat bob in a thick swallow; the blood was beginning to dry in spots, and he knew from experience that the tackiness would soon grow itchy.

"Thanks," Callum said quietly, offering a poor imitation of his usual smile before turning his attention back to Fenris. "I was doing a bit of legwork for a job. Dropped in on an old contact, but someone else had apparently already stopped by for tea and a bit of torture and dismemberment. Not entirely sure whose toes dear Helena was stepping on, but it seems she stepped too hard or too often. Probably Coterie." Chuckling hollowly, Callum stared down at his hands, picking at his fingernails. "She was an old friend. Sweet woman. Pity."

"I'm sorry." Words felt… entirely insufficient, but Fenris had no other recourse. He fumbled, shifting awkwardly on the balls of his feet.

"It happens." Callum shrugged weakly, then reached down to catch the hem of his filthy shirt and peel it over his head. The springy pelt of his chest hair was tinged red here and there, though the blood was smeared far thicker on his hands and forearms. "Just another corpse in Kirkwall. They could've been more civil about it, though."

The first dip of fingers into water ended with a hiss, but Callum didn't retreat, sluicing enough to clear the worst mess from his hands before taking up a washcloth. He scrubbed far more roughly than the grime required, but Fenris was hesitant to point out such a thing. It was obvious, from the slump of his shoulders to the tightness in his jaw, that Callum was agitated.

Sparing a glance at Varric, who had taken a seat at the head of the table to frown over paperwork, Fenris was at a loss. If he and Callum were alone, in the home they shared, then perhaps…

This should not be so difficult. People, _free people_, were allowed to show affection whenever they desired. To hold hands in marketplaces, embrace or even kiss chastely without censure. This hesitance was a weakness of the vilest sort— one more phantom chain leashing him to the memory of a cruel viper of a mage, long dead and unmourned. It ate at him, rotting in his core like poison, rolling dark and cold in his gut.

They were in Varric's suite, with only the dwarf himself for company. It wasn't as though they were in the middle of the Lowtown bazaar at midday, or standing out on the steps of the chantry. No one would see how much he cared for this man, save Varric, but the dwarf already knew. No one would see his affection; no one would tear it away.

Still, his muscles seized, frozen. Impotent. Leashed.

Eventually clean, Callum tossed the rag back into the murky water, then buffed off the lingering dampness with another larger, dry sheet. His skin was pink from heat and scrubbing, his knuckles raw and sore looking, and there were shadows in his eyes, blotting out the gleam Fenris had come to expect, to _ache_for as he'd never imagined possible. Nothing was right.

Fenris felt the buzz of his markings like insects skittering under his skin. Only years of brutal conditioning kept him motionless, even as something feral and desperate howled in the back of his mind.

This was not right. He was no slave, but he was a fool.

"Callum," he murmured, dragging the word roughly from his throat with every ounce of his will. One step, one impossibly vast step, brought him close enough to touch. Close enough to place his hand, still encased in his gauntlet, on Callum's bare shoulder.

Familiar skin, fair and lightly freckled in places, felt warm against his palm. He tensed, ready for Callum to flinch, to question, but the rebuff never came. Logically, he knew it wouldn't. His heart was hammering.

One small tug, barely a spasm of the muscles in his arm, had Callum turning towards him, looking not curious, but brittle.

One false move, one mistake, and Fenris feared he might shatter them both.

"Callum," he said again, and leaned in, wrapping his arms awkwardly around the taller, broader man. One arm, he slung over Callum's shoulder, while the other snaked around his waist, hand resting gently on the small of his back. He laid his cheek against Callum's throat, feeling the thrum of a pulse nearly as quick and pounding as his own. "I am sorry."

There was no pause, none of the blasted hesitation that wracked Fenris down to his soul, as Callum's arms came up in a snug, answering embrace, heedless of the breastplate that was doubtlessly uncomfortable, digging into muscle. It was enviable ease, sometimes _infuriating_, but also a blessing— Fenris could not imagine taking such leaps of faith and sanity without knowing that he had this man at his back, so certain and bold.

Somewhere, Varric rustled papers, humming softly to himself, but Fenris could scarcely hear it. Callum was clinging to him, breathing him in and holding him close, and to spare a thought on any other senses would threaten to undo the delicate hold Fenris had on his own composure. He was holding Callum, holding him together for this rare, fragile moment, and that was all that mattered.

He was strong enough for this.

END


	3. Sea Legs

_Snare minifill. Prompt was along the lines of "a lover finds something mundane about their partner charming or sexy."_

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><p>"What do you mean, you can't swim?" Hawke could tell the question wasn't meant to be insulting, but all Fenris' incredulous tone succeeded in doing was getting his back up (while the elf was half-naked, wading casually into the surf like immanent death wasn't waiting in those murky depths).<p>

Crossing his arms, Hawke glared a little and hoped Fenris didn't notice the way his toes were burrowing into the sand, as if clinging for purchase. "What, did I stutter? I can't bloody swim. I live on land, as I've always done, and don't have any immediate plans to change that. So far, it's not been an issue."

Rather surprisingly, Fenris didn't glare back. The sun was high and beating down hot, without even a hint of a breeze to cool the swelter, and perhaps his brains had melted out his ears, but Hawke couldn't quite remember why they'd dragged their sorry arses out of Kirkwall in the first place.

No, that was a lie. He knew precisely why they were out on the blighted Wounded Coast, on the hottest day he could ever remember suffering through, and if he made it back to the city without catching fire, he was going to punch Varric right in the mouth.

"You're overheated," Fenris said patiently, beginning to walk backward out into the sea, and Hawke felt his heart lodge firmly in his throat. "And the water is barely up to my waist here. Stop being childish and come."

"I— _childish_?" That kind of heinous untruth simply would not stand, and now Fenris was _smirking_ at him, the blighted bastardly elf. Maker's balls, he's show him—

No, he wouldn't. He couldn't.

Dropping to sit on the piping hot sand, wincing just slightly as the heat crept up through the seat of his trousers, Hawke wrapped his arms tightly around his bent legs. Boats were perfectly fine. Ponds and rivers, he could deal with, as long as they weren't too deep. But the sea? "Go ahead and play fish, if that's what blows your skirt up, but I'm staying right here." _And thinking cool thoughts, trying not to melt._

Even with the blistering sun reflecting off the water in blinding shimmers, Hawke still saw Fenris roll his eyes. A bit of splashing, and suddenly Hawke was staring up at a gorgeous elf in sopping wet smallclothes— somehow, instantly, the day became a thousand times hotter.

"Callum," Fenris rumbled, flicking his fingers and showering Hawke in shockingly chilly drops of water. "You are sweating like a nug and red as a beet. As amusing as this bizarre phobia is, I will pick you up and toss you in the sea."

Hands clenching into the sand, Hawke felt himself shrink back. "You wouldn't."

Crouching with all the grace of a particularly handsome cat, Fenris was a vision of feral beauty and an _unmitigated bastard_. "The tide here is slow, and the water shallow. Try me and see if I wouldn't." Then, shockingly, he held out a strong, elegantly marked hand. "I swear I will not let you go. Come, cool off."

Weighing the odds, Hawke very reluctantly grabbed hold of the proffered hand, squeezing perhaps slightly tighter than masculine pride might have dictated. He would meet death on his own terms, blast it all.

Clinging to Fenris' arm like a barnacle as the cool water enveloped his legs, soft sand and smooth stones shifting under his feet, Hawke paused briefly in his litany of increasingly colourful curses, glaring at his lover with the darkest look he could muster. "You can stop giggling anytime now, you spiteful little _shit_."

Making utterly no attempt to stifle his laughter, Fenris continued to drag them both out a few feet farther, splashing up waves of water with his free hand. Hawke never considered he might yearn for broodiness.

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><p>Later, still on the blighted coast for one more night at least, Hawke swallowed a mouthful of spitted hare and watched Fenris prod at the coals of their small, crackling fire. Even though the night air was quite balmy, they were both comfortably cool and relaxed. Damn that smug elf.<p>

"You're still smirking," he groused quietly, though he did scoot closer across the bedroll when Fenris moved to settle beside him. "I'm so glad my arse-clenching terror is amusing for you."

Expression sobering a bit, Fenris shook his head, now wearing just the barest hint of a softer, secret smile. "That's not it. Swimming…" Trailing off for a moment, he leaned left, butting his shoulder gently against Hawke's. "There are countless things I've learned, and continue to learn, now that I am no longer a slave. Many of those things, you've taught me. It pleases me to think there are some things I could teach you."

"I…oh." Well, shit. Swallowing thickly, Hawke slung his arm back, curling it loosely around Fenris' waist. His voice was a tad hoarse when he continued, pressing a kiss against one smooth, tanned cheek. "You teach me things every day, love. I suppose we had to get around to flopping about like a fish eventually."

END


	4. Blackberry Jam

_Callum and Fenris find themselves caring for Varric's niece for a day. Shenanigans ensue._

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><p>Hawke was usually one to trust his instincts; this fine morning, there was something in the air making his nose twitch. Something was… odd.<p>

Stopping by the Hanged Man, as per the request in Varric's note, wasn't out of the ordinary, though it was rather early in the day. Rather _very_ early— the smell of fresh bread was still lingering amongst Lowtown's usual pungency, and even the keenest the pickpockets weren't up and about yet. In fact, if it wasn't for the _as soon as possible_ tacked on to the end of the note that had arrived via bleary-eyed messenger only a couple of scant hours past dawn, Hawke would still be curled up in bed with a gorgeous, nude elf.

Whatever was going on had better be bloody worth dragging his arse out of that paradise.

No hint of trouble hidden away in the note meant he ambled through the front door, nodding at Gregory, Corff's burly day-man. The tavern was nearly empty this time of day, but still open for comings and goings, and always willing to serve liquor or terrible food for the right price.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Hawke rapped on Varric's door, waiting for the usual call to enter before he slipped inside. And that's when things got well and truly odd.

Varric wasn't seated at his table— he was hunkered down cross-legged on the floor over by his bedroom.

Playing with dolls.

"Right," Hawke said, scratching the back of his head. "Morning, Varric. Who's your lady friend?" The lady in question glanced up at him with wide, grey-blue eyes peering over mounds of chubby pink cheeks, curls of ginger hair bouncing around her ears. She was an incredibly adorable child, perhaps two years old, and Hawke felt his heart lurch foolishly when her lips parted in gap-toothed giggles.

"Hawke—" Without a hint of visible embarrassment at being caught in what some might consider a compromising position, Varric made no attempt to get to his feet. He didn't even drop the raggedy doll he'd been wiggling around. "Thanks for coming. You bring Broody?"

"My better half decided that mysterious meetings before breakfast were more within my purview." Coming a few steps closer to the bizarre, domestic tableau, Hawke lowered himself into a squat. There was something about the child's nose that seemed particularly familiar, to say nothing of the curious gleam in her piercing eyes. "Varric, sweetheart, do you have something you'd like to tell Uncle Hawke? Did you get some sweet lass up the duff, you great dwarven stallion?"

"Watch your mouth around the kid." Varric's smile didn't waver, and his tone was still silky sweet, but there was a real warning beneath. Rocking back on his heels, Hawke smartened up a smidge. "And no, I didn't. She's Bartrand's."

"Bartrand? Your worthless shi—" Sparing a glance at the tiny girl, who'd lost interest in staring him down in favour of manhandling the doll out of Varric's grip and settling in to have an animated play session with the soft, scruffy looking toy, Hawke adjusted his language accordingly. "Silly goose of a brother? Let's hope she's gotten her mother's temperament then."

Chuckling dryly, Varric hauled himself to his feet, stretching his back with an audible pop. "Well, she hasn't chewed me out for being a disgrace to the family yet, so there's still hope." He motioned for Hawke to follow him over near the table, and the girl didn't seem to mind being left to her own devices, still playing peacefully.

"Listen," Varric said quietly, with a serious tilt to his mouth. "Her name's Maren, and her mother is a casteless woman Bartrand paid to have brought to the surface, Ditte— one of a few he's got stashed around the city. He's keeping them like his own private harem of noble hunters, as if we're still squinting in a blighted tunnel and anybody really gives two shits about caste. It's all really coin up here, and connections, but my dear brother doesn't see it that way."

* * *

><p>Holding up a quelling hand before the furrow between Varric's brows could get any deeper, Hawke dropped to sit on the edge of the table. His fine dwarven friend had a tendency to tell a story with every favour he asked, and Hawke was getting the distinct impression that they were travelling down that path presently. "You're rambling. What do you need from me?"<p>

"A favour." Hawke made a noise in the back of his throat, loosely translated to _Really? No shit._ Varric sighed. "Ditte's a sweet girl, but still caught up in the Orzammar mindset— it's why Bartrand pays to have women shipped in. Surface dwarves wouldn't put up with his bullshit for a second, merchant prince or no. It's not good enough for Bartrand that Ditte beat the odds and got pregnant in the first place; he wanted a son or nothing at all."

"Charming. I needed more reasons to detest your brother."

"Yeah, well at least he didn't insist they toss the baby out in a midden heap, which is not saying much, I know, but just bear with me. Bartrand told Ditte to get rid of the kid— leave her outside the chantry to get taken in as an orphan— but she wasn't keen on the idea. With Bartrand always coming and going, she managed to hide the baby for a while."

"Ah, and let me guess." Hawke was liking the sound of this thus-far-unspoken favour less and less as Varric continued. "_A while_ ended recently. Hence the Hanged Man's brand new nursery."

Varric's grin was forced, almost sickly looking, and Hawke scrambled for an excuse to say _absolutely not_ in the politest possible way. "Always knew you were sharp. I had to get the kid out of there quick, and Bartrand can't know I have her. He might be a nug-humping windbag with some severely fucked up priorities, but he still has the ability to make life difficult for me if he really puts his mind to it."

_Shit, shit, **shit**._

"Varric," Hawke said, possibly a bit strangled. "It's too early to be dancing around this much longer. Isn't there anyone else you can palm this child off to? Someone whose home isn't full to bursting with pointy things, and poison things, and grumpy elf-y things?"

Shrugging helplessly, Varric shot a shockingly heartbreaking glance at the little girl with the fiery curls and the yellow cotton shift. "No one I could get on such short notice and who I trust this much. All my House contacts are obligated to Bartrand too, even if they hate his guts. She's my niece, Hawke; she's family, and you're like a brother to me, except I don't usually want to drag you out to the Wounded Coast and bury you face-down in the dunes. It's only for a day or so, until I can set up a permanent solution."

Hawke had a few weak spots, and family was one of them. Varric knew it too, damn it all to the Void and back. "I… Maker, you don't play at all fair, you rat bastard. Fine, _fuck_, I'll do it."

Oh, this was going to be a mess.

* * *

><p>As long as she had her doll, which was a ratty canvas thing with bits of flock peeking out of its seams, Maren was serene as a chantry sister during vespers. Remove the doll, and it was an entirely different story, as Hawke discovered on his epic journey back to his tenement, a sweet dwarven toddler held securely in his arms.<p>

Somewhere in the maze of hexes between the Hanged Man and home, little Maren had apparently dropped her dolly, then spent an indeterminate amount of time working up to the tooth-rattling wail that she let loose right in Hawke's ear. A ridiculous amount of backtracking later, and the doll was finally rescued from a blessedly dry gutter, though by that time, Hawke wasn't entirely certain he'd ever again be able to hear anything but ringing on the left side of his head.

Still, it wasn't all bad. She wasn't wriggly, and Varric had assured him she was good to use a chamber pot without much problem— the latter, especially, was possibly the best news he'd heard all day. So far in his life, Hawke had managed to avoid ever changing a nappy, and it would be a shame to break that record now.

"Nearly there, Peanut," he said, using Varric's nickname for the child and earning himself a tightening of little arms around his neck. Maren hadn't spoken a word to him yet, though Varric insisted she could talk when she wanted.

He was trying very hard to think of the best way to explain this to Fenris. So far, he'd come up with… nothing. He couldn't think of a single approach that wouldn't end in glares, possibly shouting if he was really unlucky, and at least a week on his lover's shit-list.

Climbing the stairs towards home, Hawke adjusted his hold on the bag of gear Varric had supplied, and pointedly ignored all curious glances from his neighbours. If they could turn a blind eye when he got himself a glowing elven roommate, they could certainly keep their mouths shut about a kid.

* * *

><p>Fenris glanced up from scrubbing dishes as the latch of the front door scraped, tensing with a momentary surge of alertness before it became clear it was only Callum returning home.<p>

But no, not only Callum.

"Before you say anything," the man began, as Fenris allowed the skillet to sink into the pan of hot water, pulling a cloth from his shoulder to dry his hands. "It's a favour for Varric. He was in dire straights."

"I see." He actually didn't see at all— why in the Maker's name would Varric entrust _them_ with a child? It seemed the safest thing to say, however, given his immediate loss of all other words.

A child. A very young, girl child, clinging to Callum's neck like a monkey. Fenris did his best not to sidle farther back, unwilling to show any hesitance.

He remembered nothing of being a child, nor could he recall a single instance in which he'd been made to care for one. Even now, as a free man rather than a weapon at his master's beck and call, children tended to avoid prolonged contact with him, and he with them. In that sense, it was a mutually beneficial relationship, as far as Fenris was concerned.

The child was staring at him, with eyes far too large for her miniature, rounded face. They were sharp, pale eyes, actually somewhat similar in colour to Callum's, but Fenris did not feel comforted by that fact. It was actually more than a little unnerving.

"Maren," Callum said suddenly, hooking the door with one foot and kicking it gently closed behind them. "This is Fenris. He lives here with me. Can you say hello?"

The girl, _Maren_ he assumed, took that opportunity to turn away abruptly, hiding her face in the side of Callum's head. Callum merely laughed, patting her back.

"Not quite, darling, but points for style. Fenris, this lovely little lady is Maren, and yes, far as I can tell she's always this chatty."

"Small blessings," Fenris murmured, thinking of all the squalling babes he'd seen in markets and slave quarters over the years. "Exactly what manner of favour is this? And why did Varric ask _you_?" He was very careful to avoid the use of _us_ in such a context, happy to avoid as much involvement as possible If this was meant to be a long-term arrangement, however, Fenris would certainly have a few words with his lover.

Setting a worn canvas pack on their table, Callum began gently bouncing the still-shy child, wandering slowly closer. It was with every ounce of iron will that Fenris held his ground.

"I choose not to be insulted by that implication," Callum said tartly. "Because children adore me, and you know it. And as for specifics, well, it's only for a day or so— just keeping an eye on the Peanut here until Varric can sort some things out."

There were more details, obviously, but Callum silenced any further questions with a significant shake of his head. "And she is a sweet little Peanut too," he continued, the pitch of his voice changing to that ridiculous register formally reserved for speaking nonsense to his mabari. "Aren't you, darling? Can you show Fenris your pretty doll? He loves dollies."

Choking on sudden, vehement denial— he most certainly did not love _dollies_— Fenris reined in his knee-jerk flare of annoyance when Maren peeked at him again, this time from around the furry line of Callum's jaw. Her eyes were bright, curious, and pinned him in place just as effectively as a falcon staring down a hare. Without warning, her tiny fist jabbed outward, a shabby lump of canvas flopping in her clutches.

The doll was vaguely person-shaped, formed of a body and head with four limbs, and clad in a fraying blue scrap of fabric possibly meant to be a dress. The crude face was a series of stitches, more blue for the eyes and a red line of a mouth, and the head was topped with a shock of rough-spun yarn, still white as the sheep from which it was sheared.

"Bluebell," the girl said, in a soft, thin voice. Callum's smile was beaming, damn him.

* * *

><p>Fenris attempted to go about his day as usual, despite their houseguest, but he was hesitant to leave Callum alone with the child. It wasn't anything to do with his lover's abilities— he had complete faith that Callum was nearly as good with children as he claimed to be— but there were too many dangerous things scattered around their home, just within reach of small, sticky fingers.<p>

Oh yes, sticky. The sausages he'd left for Callum's breakfast were quickly consumed between man and girl, as well as an obscene amount of bread and blackberry jam. Jam that seemed to miraculously find its way onto walls and furniture, even after repeated wiping and washing of Maren's hands and face. Fenris was keeping himself busy and moving, gathering up all things sharp or dangerously inedible and hiding them in high cupboards, only to find a toddling dwarven babe following dutifully at his heels.

"_Hawke_," he barked from the spare room, more than slightly disturbed when the girl didn't even flinch at his harsh tone. "Are you not watching this child?"

"Coming, love," was his answer from the front room, but he barely heard it over the sudden rushing sound in his ears. There was a hand, impossibly small and still damnably sticky, grabbing hold of his middle and pointer fingers, tugging, and a similarly small girl looking up at him expectantly.

The child was touching him.

"Need to pee-pee," she said plainly, tugging again, and it was only then he noticed the ominous squirming in her stance.

"_Venhedis_— Callum!"

* * *

><p>Leaving Callum to his own insanity was beginning to seem like a better and better idea as the day wore on. At the moment, for instance, Fenris was lying across the settee, trying desperately to get through even a paragraph of a book he'd been struggling through for months— a history of Shartan and gift from Callum— but the letters could have just as easily been qunari script for all he could make sense of them. The main problem was the distraction of a grown man crawling around on the floor, snorting and grunting in what was ostensibly meant to be an imitation of a bronto, while a squealing child rode about on his back.<p>

Callum thundered closer to the settee, and Fenris turned the page determinedly, despite having retained absolutely nothing. Would retreating to the bedroom be far enough, or should he leave entirely, chased out of his own home by a girl who was not yet knee-high?

He jerked his leg up when something grabbed hold of his bare foot, glaring down at two pairs of mischievous, unapologetic blue eyes.

"Pretty," Maren declared, and Fenris felt the first stirrings of a monstrous headache bloom in the back of his skull.

* * *

><p>He wasn't entirely certain how he'd been convinced to allow such a thing— he hadn't touched a drop of wine all day, despite the headache and madness— but eventually Fenris found himself cradling a sleeping child against his chest. He blamed Callum, wholeheartedly.<p>

When he caught the man staring at him from across the room, sickeningly calf-eyed, he lifted one hand from stroking Maren's hair, just long enough to make the rudest gesture he knew.

"I love you too, handsome," Callum murmured, then took another drink of his tea.

* * *

><p>"Pretty!" Maren smiled up from the mire of mashed blackberry she'd strewn over the kitchen floor, and painted over her poor abused doll in what looked like some crude parody of swirls. Markings. Fenris felt a strange fluttering in his stomach at the sight; the feeling was neither entirely pleasant nor unpleasant. "Bluebell's pretty!"<p>

"Andraste's… toes," Callum cursed lamely, scooping the girl up with one arm. "Teach us to nap without tying a bell to her. Can you start a fire, love? We're going to need some hot water for a bath, I think."

* * *

><p>"That was not a bath." Sprawled across their bed, uncaring of propriety or pride, Fenris fought to slow his heavy panting. "That was a <em>battle<em>."

Beside him, equally worn, Callum grunted. "Hard fought, but won."

Between them, a damp girl child snuffled warningly in sleep, the pair of spoons tied around her ankle clinking softly together. The men froze, scarcely daring to breathe.

Eventually, they slept. Lightly.

* * *

><p>The knock didn't come until mid-afternoon the next day, when Fenris was seated on the settee with Maren curled in his lap, reading her one of the simpler stories Callum had used to teach him letters at the beginning, before they'd even become lovers. The girl was sucking her thumb quietly, hugging her newly washed Bluebell (Callum had even strengthened its seams with a few rows of tight stitches), but the sound of something rapping against the front door made her squeak, curling tightly against Fenris' chest.<p>

"I'll get it," Callum said, and the detailed map of some unfortunate noble's mansion disappeared into his shirt as he pushed himself off the other end of the settee. All the daggers hidden in the furniture had been moved, but Callum almost always had at least two blades on his person at all times.

As it turned out, wariness was unnecessary; it was only Mica, one of Varric's most trusted mouthpieces. When he gave them the address of Maren's new home, it took a great deal of effort on Fenris' part not to scowl. It was in one of the nicer areas of Lowtown, removed from the worst of the gangs and the stench.

It wasn't a difficult home to find, and from the outside it seemed quite well-kept. Lush green herbs grew in the window boxes, and the front step was swept clear of the trash that always seemed to collect around Lowtown's edges. The dwarven couple who lived inside, a fabric trader and his wife, both smiled easily and honestly.

Fenris still felt his throat tighten, foolishly, when it was time to leave Maren in their care. He pulled one gauntlet off to brush a bit of the girl's hair behind her ear before he left, memorizing the intense, stormy blue of her gaze.

"Be good," he rumbled, allowing her to grasp his fingers for a moment, then inhaled sharply when she rushed forward in all her clumsy glory and mashed a kiss right against his lips, nearly cracking his nose with her forehead.

"Be good," she repeated gravely after pulling away, but whether it was agreement or command, Fenris was unsure. Then she dropped his hand, and bolted over to Callum, shrieking with delight as he scooped her up in his arms and blew a noisy raspberry against her neck.

"Oh, what a pretty lady! You mind your new Mama and Poppa, little Peanut." There were very few people who might have caught the strange undertone in Callum's voice, hidden deftly as it was under laughter and his usual drollness. "And you, Miss Bluebell, are a vision of loveliness. Never change, my darling."

* * *

><p>Much later that night, after a visit to the Hanged Man for a few rounds of Wicked Grace and the usual liquor to lubricate the process, Fenris found himself panting in bed for an entirely different reason than the evening before. Beside him, Callum grunted, skin slick with sweat and come.<p>

They tangled together, willing to wait for morning and the itchier clean-up if it meant not moving out of bed at that moment, and Fenris could feel Callum tense and relax with unspoken questions for a long, peaceful silence before the man finally spoke.

"So," Callum began casually, spooned up against his back. "Miss her?"

"A little." It was simple enough to admit, surprisingly, though Fenris also understood the deeper truth behind the query. "But we would have been hopeless with her before the week was out." _It is for the best, this way_.

"I know." The words, and the kiss pressed under his ear, felt honest, if a tiny bit sad. "I like my life. My work. A child wouldn't fit." Teeth scraped lightly over his shoulder. "And call me greedy, but I do like having you all to myself."

"Greedy," Fenris agreed, lifting one of Callum's hands to press a kiss against his palm.

No, the reality of children was not meant for either of them, and Fenris found himself much less disappointed by that than he'd feared. He had family enough already— more than he'd ever considered possible.

He was… happy, he realised gradually. Happy and largely contented.

And that was more than good enough.


	5. Simplicity

_An anon on the meme asked for this: "One of my very favorite things is Callum Hawke's pervy internal monologue regarding Fenris. This anon would like to request a scenario in which Callum cannot act on his desires for a prolonged period but has to remain with Fenris." And because I love pervy Callum too, this fic happened._

* * *

><p>It was probably a sin to look so utterly fuckable in the middle of a chantry. If Hawke didn't die of acute blue-balls in the next few hours, he'd have to tell Fenris to take care— his immortal soul might be on the line, after all.<p>

Regardless, it was definitely some kind of sin to be thinking about what Hawke was thinking about, especially in the middle of a chantry, and _especially_ (also, disturbingly) in the middle of the annual Wintersend service of remembrance. There was a special part of the Void— the darkest, dingiest part, probably with a bit of a draft— reserved for pervy bastards who got all hot and bothered when they should have been reminiscing about dead and still-grieved fathers and brothers. He was a bad, bad man.

Adjusting himself as subtly as he could (which was damned subtly, thank you very much; he might be hard as a rock, but he still had the quickest fingers in Kirkwall), Hawke kept his eyes glued firmly to the Grand Cleric's wrinkly visage, cast in fierce, unflattering relief by the scores of candles scattered about the nave. The congregation had already sung a bit of the Chant, with Fenris' rich, velvety baritone rumbling oh-so-quietly and self-consciously beside Hawke's shoulder, and now Her Grace was onto some sermon about the Maker's divine plan before she got to reading the list of names. Knowing the Grand Cleric's usual long-windedness, especially when it came to addressing the larger crowd Wintersend brought to services (to say nothing of the lengthy list of those to be remembered), Hawke had little doubt they were stuck for another hour or two, at the very least.

Fenris looked glorious in candlelight— ethereally beautiful, with softened edges and a honeyed warmth to his olive skin— but blast it all, Hawke _could not look_.

It was all the fault of those thrice-damned, blighted _clothes_, and thus Hawke placed every ounce of blame for his current predicament on his meddlesome, busybody of a sister and his pushy, manipulative mother. The year before, when Hawke had informed Fenris that their presence was required (on pain of death) at the Wintersend service, this hadn't been an issue. His lover had simply worn his usual leathers, minus the gauntlets and breastplate, all buttoned under his slate-grey wool coat (a gift from Varric during Fenris' first winter in Kirkwall; accepted only because the dwarf had insisted that frost-bitten mercs were of absolutely no value). Granted, the coat was deliciously well-cut, but it was nothing, _nothing_ compared to _that shirt_.

No, normal leathers weren't good enough for the fine ladies Amell, and the usual exchange of Satinalia gifts months before had ended with a few new pieces added to Fenris' limited wardrobe, accepted with awkward but sincere thanks.

The trousers were soft, fine-spun grey wool, a shade darker than his coat, and while not as form fitting as a pair of buttery leather leggings, they still hung temptingly from those trim hips, making Fenris' slender legs look a thousand miles long. The shirt… well that was another matter entirely.

It was silk, which was bad enough. The feel of it sliding over Fenris' skin was intoxicating, so much so that it had been a challenge for Hawke to leave the tenement without rubbing himself all over his lover like a giant cat. It was also the absolute perfect colour of red, so deep it was nearly purple— it was the colour of all Fenris' favourite wines, bold but refined. Hawke loved the taste of them too, though it was a toss-up whether he preferred chasing the flavour over Fenris' tongue in a searching kiss, or lapping it off the sleek, taut planes of his lover's chest and stomach.

Taking a few slow, measured breaths, Hawke fought desperately to settle himself down. The iron-haired old biddy seated on his left was going to start giving him looks if he kept squirming. He did not need looks.

He _needed_ Fenris' hand in his smallclothes, or (oh, even better) his mouth, but that didn't seem likely in the near future.

He couldn't even sneak away, despite being an epitome of stealth, and rub a quick one out in one of the confessional booths. His mother and Bethany were seated only two rows ahead, and if either of them turned around even for an instant and saw him gone, things would get decidedly uncomfortable. The remembrance service was one of the only times Bethany risked a trip to the chantry, though so far her magic remained a very well-kept secret in Kirkwall, and Hawke would rather lop his own balls off than ruin the day for her.

Which, he decided, might be his only option if Her Grace yammered on much longer.

He needed to think of anything other than the row of tiny brass buttons that held the collar of _that shirt_ closed a respectable amount, hiding firm muscle and the sweeping dip of collarbones… buttons Hawke could undo with his teeth, carefully, one by agonizing one, dampening silk with his tongue, dampening skin—

_Blessed Andraste, please don't let me rupture in the middle of your lovely chantry. I'll make such a mess._

"Callum," Fenris whispered, and Hawke's eyes snapped open. Maker, he didn't remember closing them. "Are you all right? You're flushed."

Fenris was leaning so close Hawke could feel warm breath against his ear. Long, callused fingers landed as light as a butterfly on the back of Hawke's hand, which was clenched on his thigh. _Oh Andraste, what did I ever do to you?_

"Peachy, love," he whispered in return. "Incense is a bit thick."

_Thick and hot and **throbbing**—_

Fenris narrowed his eyes slightly, even as Hawke offered a small, slightly strained smile. "You're red as a beet, and sweating. If you're unwell—"

_If you think my face is red, love, you should see my cock. Purple and pulsing, just for you—_

On Hawke's other side, the elderly lady hissed out a reproachful shush, craning around to glare at them both with dark, rheumy eyes. Fenris' mouth clicked shut almost comically, though it might have been funnier if the slight blush of embarrassment dusting across his cheeks hadn't made him look even more alluring. Add some rumpled hair, and a few of those buttons undone, with lips reddened from kisses—

Ostensibly, Hawke was a grown man, not some callow pup at the mercy of his dick. It was ridiculous and more than slightly perverted that he could be reduced to a writhing mass of _want_ by something as innocent as Fenris in a blighted silk shirt.

The moment Fenris had padded out of their bedroom, dressed to the nines and _gorgeous_, Hawke should have thrown himself at the elf's mercy and begged for a blowjob. He'd known then that the immediate tingling in his crotch was only going to grow worse with every shift of powerful, trim muscles under fine, wine-red cloth. The idea that he was trapped, with no hope of relief for an impossible amount of time, was simply making his blood race hotter.

Oh, he was pervy, and awful, but he was struck suddenly by the image of kneeling between Fenris' thighs to take so much cock into his throat that he'd feel it for days. Or Fenris bending him over the back of a pew and rimming him until he melted into a gibbering puddle. Images of that damned silk shirt dragging over sweat-slick skin, binding Hawke's wrists together, or covering his eyes so every touch was a surprise, or binding _Fenris'_ wrists as Hawke laid him out like a sacrifice, letting his hands roam and tease—

The rest of the service was a haze. Father and Carver's names weren't read aloud (throwing the name Hawke around when his mother and Bethany were involved was something they always avoided, and it didn't feel proper to have them announced as Amells), but Hawke did notice both women go up to light a small candle each. Beyond that moment of lucidity, everything else blurred together in a fog of increasingly depraved fantasies, playing out involuntarily behind his eyes.

He could taste blood where he'd chewed the inside of his cheek too hard, but the pain hadn't helped ease his arousal in the slightest. Speaking of pain, he wondered (entirely unhelpfully) if Fenris might be convinced to give him a good, hard spanking given how very, _very_ naughty he was being in the chantry.

As the last strains of the last verse of the Canticle of Trials echoed through the nave, Hawke jumped at the feeling of a familiar hand closing around his upper arm.

"Come," Fenris said firmly, as the congregation began to gather themselves and filter out towards the exit. _I would **love** to,_ Hawke's mind (or cock) supplied eagerly.

He followed obediently, sucking in a great lungful of fresh air the moment they stepped outside. It wasn't yet midday, and despite the clear sky and bright sunlight, the temperature was bracing. His erection, not one to back down from a challenge, twitched defiantly in his warm wool trousers.

Thank the Maker for coats that covered crotches. If it wasn't for the extra layer hanging over his thighs, Hawke would look as though he was dowsing for water.

Giving him a gentle shove to get him moving down the steps, Fenris stayed very near Hawke's shoulder, frowning with obvious concern. "Now, what's wrong?"

There weren't nearly as many little hidey-holes and dark alleys in Hightown as there were lower in the city, but Hawke could still find every one with his eyes closed. Calling up a pleading expression that wasn't even slightly forced, Hawke moved quickly down towards street level. If he was going to convince Fenris to go for this, he would have to be very persuasive.

"I just… I need a moment," he said quietly, licking his lips. "Follow me?"

As he'd hoped, Fenris' eyes softened ever so slightly. "Of course. Always."

_Keeping being so bloody sweet, love, and I'm going to suck you off in an alley._

Slipping away from the crowds— his mother and Bethany would be exiting soon, and then they were all meant to meet at the estate for a meal that evening— Hawke took a left, then a right, then another left into a long, narrow strip of alleyway. It was a dead-end, unless you were willing to climb a fifteen-foot stone wall, and forever shadowed by the imposing buildings on either side. Hawke had killed a Nevarran merchant in this alley once, on a relatively lucrative contract.

Once they were ensconced in suitable cover (no one would see them unless they came straight down the alley, and Hawke was confident he'd hear most footsteps first), Hawke leaned back against one wall, shivering as Fenris' bare hand reached up to cup his cheek.

"So, I seem to be suffering from a bit of a problem," Hawke said, catching hold of Fenris' other wrist and guiding that other hand down to press against the iron-hard erection straining his trousers. At the contact, it was all Hawke could do to keep from moaning loud. "A— _ah_— rather sizable problem, actually."

Hissing like a wet cat, Fenris snatched both hands away as if he'd been burned. "What— we've just come from the chantry, the _remembrance_ service. Your mother and sister lit candles in memory of your family. I cannot even… this may be too depraved, even for you."

"I know that," Hawke sing-songed, then swept a hand out to indicate Fenris as a whole. "And yet, there you are, looking so incredibly sexy in that blighted shirt that my dick forgot its manners. I didn't exactly have a grand old time sitting through the entire sermon like this, with my cock trying to bore through the pew in front of us every time I knelt."

Narrowing his eyes dangerously, Fenris made no other move. "I see. And what precisely do you intend to do about it in this alleyway?"

"I'd planned to toss off while staring at you." Grinning while gritting his teeth didn't end in the most natural-looking expression, but Hawke was beyond caring. "Unless you're inspired to lend me a hand, as it were. Consider this your open invitation." He'd also planned to put on a more convincing air, but apparently his cock had other ideas, making him lippy with discomfort.

Not waiting for Fenris to retort or storm off, Hawke took another (possible a final) appraising gander at that glorious shirt and the delicious elf beneath it and undid his trousers, shoving them and his smalls down just enough to free his erection. The winter air made him inhale sharply, but then he was licking his palm and wrapping his sensitive prick up in a firm, warming hand. The first squeeze and short stroke was nearly enough to buckle his knees.

Fenris made a strangled, disbelieving kind of noise, shooting a glance at the alley's mouth. "You— _Callum_. You're truly going to do that _here_?"

"I really— ah, _fuck_— really, truly am." Toes curling in his boots, Hawke twisted his wrist sharply, all delicacy forgotten somewhere between the chantry steps and this moment. "Keep talking, love, and we'll be out of this alley in no time. Mm, Maker, that voice…"

"You are completely insane." Insanely lucky, as well— sighing resignedly, Fenris stepped close, resting his chin lightly on Hawke's shoulder. Hawke's cock, already pulsing from the attention, twitched with joy. "I suppose you want me to recount some lurid fantasy for you. Something with _straining loins_, and an obscene amount of oil."

Laughing breathlessly while his cock stuttered into his fist, leaking precome, Hawke turned his head just enough to drop a kiss against Fenris' brow. "You have _got_ to stop reading the dirty novels Varric recommends. Say anything— fantasies, poetry, recipes— it's all your _voice_, love."

"Be glad I find that more flattering than disturbing." When Fenris' fingers curled around his, adding that extra bit of pressure around his erection, Hawke let loose a groan that was ridiculously loud, the sound tearing brokenly from his throat. Maker have mercy, he hadn't actually though Fenris would touch him at all. "Hush, before you summon a curious audience. Think of last night."

If anything, Fenris' voice was growing huskier, dropping into that spine-melting tone thus far reserved for private, intimate moments in their own home. Either the usually taciturn, publicly grumpy elf was more affected by Hawke's predicament than he let on, or he wanted to get the fuck out of the alley in the most expedient possible way.

To be perfectly honest, Hawke wasn't bothered by either option.

"Think of my hands on you. Think of my mouth—"

It was a damned shame he was so close; if Hawke had even an ounce of self-control left, he might have held on, reined himself in and let Fenris' dirty talk really pick up speed. The moment the word _mouth_ rumbled out of that perfect, scorching, moist mouth in question, however—

_Holy Maker, last night, all suction and heat and Fenris' eyes smouldering up at him from behind a fringe of white hair, with three long fingers buried knuckle deep in Callum's arse, twisting_

—sparks lit all around the edges of Hawke's vision, and the coil of pleasure tightening in the base of his spine let go with a burst and a shout, and Fenris was finishing him off with steady strokes, milking him dry and keeping him standing with an arm looped around his waist.

"Fuck," Hawke panted, blinking and sagging with the aching relief of an orgasm so long in the making, while at the same time Fenris said smugly, "That was simple."

Simple? Inhaling deeply, Hawke pulled himself together just enough to slip out of Fenris' half-embrace, quickly tucking himself away to keep delicate skin away from icy wind, then darted his other hand out to palm Fenris through his fine trousers.

"Aha," he murmured, grinning as he found another _sizable problem_ had cropped up. Calling on his quickest reflexes to give Fenris no chance to wriggle away, Hawke tugged trousers and smalls out of the way and dropped into a squat, swallowing down the impressive erection he found waiting for him without so much as a _hello, what's this then_.

Above him, Fenris snarled wordlessly, hips jerking into the sudden stimulation. Rather than try to control the motion, Hawke tilted his head, opened his throat, and took Fenris deep enough that his nose pressed against wine-coloured silk. Thankfully, even given the unusual circumstances of this little tryst, Fenris didn't need any more encouragement to start fucking his face in earnest. Fingers tangled in Hawke's hair, holding but not yanking, and Fenris' cock slid between his lips with steady, then increasingly erratic thrusts.

"Callum—" Fenris was muttering his name hoarsely, peppered between grunts and strings of Arcanum, and it was a beautiful sound. Grabbing two handful of taut, flexing arse, Hawke squeezed, contracting his throat when Fenris' noises shifted to that perfect, feral pitch that always heralded the start of a powerful climax.

When Fenris went rigid a few short moments later, Hawke was hardly surprised, swallowing greedily until finally Fenris whined, pushing him away from a softened prick that was no doubt oversensitive.

Rocking back on his heels, Hawke stood, pleased he'd managed all that without getting his knees wet in the filthy skiff of slush that squished under his boots. Fenris didn't object when he leaned close, nuzzling a lazy kiss.

"You're right," Hawke said, voice a bit rough and jaw a tiny bit sore. "That was simple."

Fenris grimaced in response, fastening his trousers with unsteady hands, but there was clear fondness simmering under the surface. "Ass."

Orgasm usually made Fenris rather pliant, like a great, sleepy cat, and Hawke was neither too proud nor too honourable not to take advantage of that. Sliding his hands under Fenris' coat, he revelled in the glide of silk over muscle, stealing another longer kiss.

"Are you complaining?" he murmured, cheering silently when Fenris' arms curled around him, holding him loosely around the ribs. The hours of aching hard-on seemed more and more like a fair trade every moment.

"Not at all," Fenris said after a long, peaceful silence, tenderly enough to make Hawke's heart flutter. The moment flirted with a spiral into downright sappy, but then he snorted softly, smacking one hand against Hawke's chest. "Come, before you get flustered by the way I part my hair. You've filled your perversion quotient for the week, at least."


	6. Bristles

_This is a silly little thing :3_

* * *

><p>Hawke sat in front of his shaving mirror, staring into the gaping maw of the Void itself. His throat felt incredibly tight, as if he'd just swallowed a rock the size of his own fist, and ridiculously― <em>fucking ridiculously<em>― his eyes actually felt a tiny bit warm and gritty.

This was a disaster. There was no getting around it; no saving grace. This was despair, untempered by even the barest sliver of hope.

In some final, mad bid for salvation, Hawke licked his fingers and tried desperately to slick down the cowlick that peeked up from the crown of his head. For a moment, one bright, blessed moment, it seemed as though it might work, even after salves and balms had left him in naught but a greasy mess. He pressed it down with spit, and holy merciful Maker, it _stayed_.

His heart fluttered; he scarcely dared to breathe. Blessed Andraste, it was going to stay―

And then Fenris walked into the bedroom, and in the wake of that minor shift in the air, the cowlick sprang back to life, as defiant as ever.

_Fucking nuglicking **balls**._

"Callum, it's past time to―"

"Not going." Slamming the silver mirror down against the dressing table, reflective side down, Hawke stood and yanked his shirt over his head, scrubbing at the sticky, useless residue gumming up the rest of his hair before tossing the shirt aside. "Not going outside for at least a month."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Fenris' head tilt questioningly, and quickly stalked over to the bed instead of waiting for his interrogation to begin. Stripping down to his smalls, kicking his trousers off heedlessly, Hawke flopped down onto the mattress and sandwiched his head between two pillows. Not only did the position hide his ridiculous hair, but it had the added bonus of reminding him that suffocating himself until he passed out was still a viable option. Perhaps he'd wake up to find this was all a terrible dream.

"Callum." Behind him, the mattress dipped. "What… What's the matter?"

This was not a crazy thing to be upset about. Why could he not think of a way to explain his situation that didn't sound completely insane?

Finally, after too long a silence, Fenris prodded him in the shoulder and Hawke turned over, grimacing tightly. Staring up at the ceiling, he couldn't help but consider whether or not lying down like this hid the cowlick. He was losing his mind.

"It's my hair," he settled on finally, and very purposefully did not look over to gauge Fenris' reaction to that admission. Stupid Fenris and his stupidly attractive, naturally tousled hair. "Do you think Varric would be angry if I murdered his barber? The man is a blighted menace with a pair of scissors."

"Your hair." Still staring resolutely at the ceiling, Hawke nodded slightly. "You're this agitated because of your hair."

Hawke had a thousand replies for that incredulous, ever so mildly derisive tone, but he swallowed them all back. Just because he'd been sheared as haphazardly as a wriggling sheep, didn't mean he needed to start a fight.

A month in hiding would probably be long enough. He'd catch up on his reading, if nothing else.

There was another lengthy lull in the conversation, until the bed shifted again, and Hawke blinked as an arm reached into his line of sight. Fenris' fingers carding through his hair was usually one of the most soothing sensations imaginable… and it wasn't entirely ruined by the seething resentment he felt for that one stubborn, disobedient whorl.

"You could wear a hood," Fenris said slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dim child, and Hawke very nearly swatted his hand away. Instead, he inhaled deeply through his nose, then let the air out in a long, decidedly nettled sigh.

Leaning over, putting his face squarely between Hawke and the point on the ceiling that had become the focus of his glaring ire, Fenris' expression was unfairly amused. "We could shave your head. I'll do it for you, if you like."

"I hate you." Fenris was _smirking_, damn him, and somehow, despite the phantom itch at the back of his head, Hawke felt his lips twitch upward in response. "You heartless arse of a man. I'm _distraught _here."

"Distraught enough to shave?" Leaning down, Fenris pressed a brief peck of a kiss against his brow. "I am going to the Hanged Man for cards, very shortly. Would it help if I lopped off a great hank of my own hair?"

"What? Maker, no!" Hawke could imagine it now― one long, pointed ear sticking out from a foolishly shorn spot, looking as miserable and unbalanced as the broken mast of a ship. And Fenris would do it in a heartbeat, without a single regret. Damn him.

"You're an arse," Hawke said again, shivering a bit as Fenris' blunt nails scraped lightly over his scalp. "I just… All right, fine. Let me rinse some of this worthless shit out before I stick permanently to a pillow, and we'll go." He sat up, his own hands clawing into the sheets, fighting the urge to vainly try and smooth anything down.

Fenris beat him to the punch, regardless, stretching back to tug at the hair Hawke could feel lifting out of place. The feel of the goo Hawke had smeared over it made him pull a face, and it wouldn't achieve anything except making his fingers tacky, but it was a… thoughtful gesture.

He still wanted to hide in the deepest, darkest hole he could find, but maybe, just maybe, the Hanged Man was the next best thing.


	7. Arishokost

_"Demands of the Qun," Callum Hawke style. _

_Warning for character death._

* * *

><p>Varric Tethras was a great many things to a great many people, though some of those things were more obvious than others. He was a storyteller to anyone with a willing ear, a skilled handler and loyal best friend to the most efficient (and craziest) assassin in the Free Marches, and a keen enthusiast of well-built ranged weaponry. He also enjoyed good whisky, doe-eyed dwarven women, and the creamy, scented soaps you could only get from Antivan merchants.<p>

Hawke joked that he had more layers than an onion, but that wasn't entirely inaccurate. Simple, straightforward men didn't last long in his business, and more often than not, Varric Tethras was a business man.

His business, however, didn't often involve personal invitations from the city's seneschal.

Varric had been in the middle of enjoying a nightcap and good book when a dozen city guardsmen had come knocking, and it was only Aveline's presence at their fore that kept him from dropping a smoke bomb or two and slipping out the back. Despite a rather vocal falling out when she'd left his employ, he and the iron-spined lieutenant didn't get on too terribly— granted, they didn't often run in the same circles anymore, which helped immensely with the _not wanting to strangle or otherwise maim each other_ thing.

Such an invitation was not to be refused, surely, especially when it came complete with so many swords. In the face of that, Varric had tied up his hair again, pulled on his coat and boots, and allowed himself to be ushered out of the tavern with his oh-so-subtle escort. A small, meaningful nod to Corff meant a message would be on its way to Hawke before Varric stepped foot out of Lowtown, but he had a bad feeling his assassin was out hunting tonight. He prayed silently that if Fenris were home to get the message, the broody bastard had the sense not to try and tear his way into the Keep.

Shit, what a mess, and Varric still had no damned idea what was going on.

Aveline was almost as displeased about this bizarre turn of events as Varric was, he could tell by the scrunched look of her profile. The guards were penning him in as they walked, keeping pace with his dwarven legs with minimal grumbling, and the entire atmosphere was rather… tense.

"You going to give me a hint, Lieutenant?" he asked eventually, when they were nearly to Hightown, the merchants' stalls set up along the stairs already closed and silent for the night. At least he'd be able to avoid suffering a stink-eye from the Guild.

Shaking her head, Aveline spared a quick glance at the other guardsmen. "I don't know any more than you about this, Varric." Then she squinted over at him, and her lips actually twitched up ever so slightly, though the small expression was actually more resignedly annoyed than amused. He probably wasn't meant to see it in the first place, but the darkness of a Kirkwall night wasn't a challenge for dwarven eyes. "You being you, I probably know less."

He believed her. Something was up, obviously, but Freckles didn't know a thing.

No, not Freckles. Though technically accurate, it just didn't _fit_, and it would more than likely end with a bruised jaw (or worse) if he ever said it out loud. Shit, he'd had years of knowing this woman, and he still couldn't think of a decent nickname. It was a matter of pride at this point.

"All right, then. Mysterious, clandestine meetings in the dark of night it is. Fantastic."

* * *

><p>The seneschal's office smelled faintly but distinctly of camphor and mint, which was a little weird, but Varric took it in stride. Bran himself was standing (lurking) behind his desk, looking rather grim, while Varric had politely refused a seat of his own. There was nothing appealing about hopping up onto a human-built chair and having his feet swing in the air like a child.<p>

"Well then, Seneschal." Varric kept his tone curiously good-humoured. He had every intention of playing the wastrel younger son of a merchant family until Bran gave him a reason to do otherwise. "My deepest thanks for the hospitality, messere, but to what do I owe this pleasure? It's rather late for a social call, even with the hours I keep."

There were no guards left inside the office, which was surprising, and they hadn't even made a fuss about Bianca strapped to his back. Alone and armed with the seneschal… Varric didn't like any of this. His palms were prickling.

"Serah Tethras," Bran began quietly, folding his hands over the back of his chair. "I will admit this is a rather unseemly state of affairs, and I apologise for any inconvenience, but I find myself in an awkward situation. I have come to understand you are rather skilled at sorting out… awkward situations."

The dramatic pause was a nice touch, especially with the long shadows cast by the few candles, and the atmosphere of secrecy. A bit heavy handed, but the scene had promise. Varric waited, unwilling to show another card until the seneschal made a decent wager.

After a tense moment, Bran cleared his throat, shifting away from the chair and crossing his arms loosely. "Kirkwall has need of a capable, discrete individual to remove a dangerous element, serah. Is that a service you can offer?"

Varric kept his face perfectly impassive, while inside his mind was whirling. The viscount's office had never approached anyone like this before, as far as Varric knew, and he made it his business to know everything— _especially_ who was buying assassins' services. Flicking a bit of nothing off the cuff of his coat, he considered his response carefully.

"That depends, messere." There was a fine line between necessarily circumspect and irritatingly vague, and with clients of this magnitude, Varric was keen to tread that line with all due caution. "How… _persuasive_do you expect such a removal to be? And how permanent?"

In the dim flicker of candlelight, Bran's brow furrowed, and Varric worried for an instant that he might have miscalculated. Then the seneschal huffed derisively and lifted his chin.

"The qunari need to leave the city before tensions grow any worse, and we have exhausted diplomatic means. The situation is a tinderbox." Varric had heard about all the _diplomatic means _the viscount had attempted. Time and again the qunari denied requests for audiences, turned aside envoys, and were generally unsociable oxmen just waiting to start some serious shit in that serious way of theirs. Bran was correct in his assessment of tensions— over the years their guests had been squatting by the docks, the grumblings in the dark corners of Kirkwall had simply been growing worse.

Varric did not like where this was headed, not one little bit, and he liked it even less when he imagined Hawke's inevitable enthusiasm. Give him a challenge, and the man would wilfully ignore the fact that he was headed full tilt towards a shit-show of epic proportions, until of course he was neck deep in it. And whenever Hawke was neck deep in shit, Varric was already drowning.

_Blessed Ancestors, we're going to off an Arishok._

The seneschal was oblivious to his uneasiness, continuing on with his sales pitch. "We have learned on good authority, however that without their leader, their Arishok, that the qunari will return to the north. Can you assure that happens, Serah Tethras?"

_We're really going to off an Arishok. Maker's sanctified **balls.**_

"Given the right terms, Seneschal," he heard himself say, smoothly and confidently, even as his stomach rolled. "Anything's possible."

* * *

><p>By the time Hawke got back in for the night, it was actually morning, and he was looking forward to a lazy day in bed. The job had gone perfectly, Kirkwall was less one unfortunate merchant with wealthy enemies, and some of that wealth would be trickling Hawke's way sometime in the next few days. The client had requested both "accidental" and "particularly embarrassing," and it had been quite the affair to stage after the poison had done its work. Trussing up a half-nude body in a compromising position (then adding a few props for good measure) had taken both planning and time.<p>

Later that morning, Hawke had little doubt the former Serah Pryce's maid would get quite the shock when she discovered her unlucky employer, all tarted up like an Orlesian doll, with his cock and balls wrapped in bows like a Satinalia gift. Pity he choked to death trying to fellate that zucchini, but he really shouldn't have had so much to drink before getting adventurous.

Hawke sometimes worried about the state of the world when clients' requests were so specific, so comprehensive, and so… eccentric.

Details aside, a properly dead merchant meant a few days to relax, and Hawke had every intention of doing just that. So, of course, Varric went and got himself kidnapped.

He found the note when he got home, penned in Fenris' careful, blocky print, though for once the words were tilted and messy in haste. Since he'd learned his letters, Fenris was meticulous with every blot of ink he put to paper; once glance at the scribbled page had all the hairs on Hawke's arms rising to attention, and reading the words didn't help matters.

**Callum— City guards took Varric, moving toward Hightown. I am following.**

"Shit," he hissed, resisting the urge to crumple the paper in his fist. He was still fully kitted for hunting, all dark leathers and armed to the teeth, which would save a bit of time. Pulling his hood back up over his hair, Hawke left the tenement much quicker than he'd arrived, darting out into the pre-dawn and setting a brutal pace through the streets. He had no idea how long ago Varric had been taken, or what the guards' intentions might be, but that nosy, smart-mouthed little bastard was his brother in all but blood, and—

He met them at the base of the stairs to Hightown, the ones closest to the Hanged Man. Varric appeared no worse for wear, chatting amiably with Fenris as the pair of them ambled along. Hawke quite literally skidded to a halt.

"Look at that; great timing, Hawke." And of course, Varric caught sight of him gawping immediately, even with only the barest hint of sunrise brightening the sky far to the east, which even then was mostly hidden by high, crumbling walls. "Come to mount your daring rescue? I'm truly touched."

Hawke shook off the darkness that had been gripping him with a deep, calming breath, and managed to dredge up a playful smile. "Hm? Not I, messere. Just out for a stroll."

When he came near enough, Varric reached up and clapped him on the arm. Fenris' expression was troubled, and Varric's joking was brittle— Hawke let his smile falter, keeping pace as Varric continued their walk through the dark streets.

"I just want to get back to my room," Varric said wearily, while Hawke sent Fenris a questioning glance over the dwarf's head, which was answered with a small shrug. "And have a drink before I start bitching about our dear Viscount's hospitality. There's some things you'll want to know, too, Hawke."

"Good." Hawke couldn't think of a damned thing the Viscount might want from him that wouldn't be a massive pain in the arse. He liked to avoid all but a minimal amount of politics in his work, though it always slipped in here and there. Powerful people always made a few rich enemies. "A drink sounds like a grand notion."

* * *

><p>"Oh, I don't like the sound of that <em>at all<em>." By the look on Varric's face, the dwarf hadn't expected that response to this barking mad idea of a contract. Picking up his drink, Hawke leaned forward, feeling a bit insulted by the assumption that he was an absolute lunatic. "Listen, I don't start wars if I can help it. This is not a new rule. How many times have I refused contracts on the Viscount? Or the Knight-Commander, or the First Enchanter?"

Shaking his head, Hawke took a pointed sip of whisky, already knowing full well that _logic_ and _good sense _would not end this discussion. When dealing with politics, good sense was a rare and precious commodity, so often shoved under the rug.

He simply didn't expect Fenris to be the one to do the shoving.

"The seneschal is very likely correct." Looking up from his intent study of his own cup, Fenris didn't even twitch under the sudden weight of Hawke's incredulous stare. "Qunari have a very rigid understanding of honour and responsibility. If this information is accurate, and they have remained because of some duty the Arishok has taken upon himself, then his death should release the others."

_Fantastic_. "Release them to bugger off back to Par Vollen, or to unleash all manner of revenge? And is the Viscount prepared to deal with— how many are there, a hundred? A hundred angry qunari, if it goes sour?"

"It's already sour. There've been problems with the Chantry." Varric swirled his whisky thoughtfully, rubbing the broad tips of his fingers against his brow. "And the alienage. At this point, getting the oxmen out of the city might be the best bet to keep this whole thing from boiling over, unchecked. You know I don't like this either."

There was a noisy, supremely overconfident part of Hawke's mind that was chomping at the bit to take out such a powerful, imposing figure. What a story it would make, if he could ever tell it… Hawke slapped that overconfidence into submission on a fairly regular basis, preferring to enjoy his infamy and reputation while still alive.

This time, the cocky, bastardly thoughts were especially loud, entirely unaccustomed to both Varric and Fenris agreeing with insane notions like this.

It really wasn't his fault. The deck was stacked against sanity.

"All right, fine." _This is going to be a proper mess._"I'll do it, and try not to get smushed into jam for my troubles, and you all can deal with the fallout if it goes tits up. I swear though, if hornheads start burning down Kirkwall, I'll be on the first bloody ship back to Ferelden." Fenris made a small, disbelieving snort, and Hawke reached over to flick him very lightly on the shell of the ear. "I wouldn't mind keeping you warm through a winter in the Hinterlands, love. How does one kill a qunari, anyway?"

Swatting at Hawke's hand, Fenris narrowed his eyes at the mention of winter. He'd never truly agreed with Hawke's assessment of Wintermarch in Kirkwall as _balmy_. "Thoroughly. And quickly, if you can manage it."

* * *

><p>Even oxmen had to sleep sometime; it was just past midnight, on a perfectly moonless, overcast night, and the docks were quiet. There were a few qunari still on guard, of course, really no fewer than during the day and likely just as vigilant, but the darkness made all the difference. The ramshackle nature of the qunari encampment (fortified very well, but still just an open space in the middle of a dockyard) made things a bit simpler as well, though Hawke would later count this infiltration as one of the most challenging of his career.<p>

He'd worn silk and linen in shades of deep, dark grey, feeling nearly naked but removing even the slightest chance of a damning creak of hide and metal. His usual leathers likely wouldn't have been terribly effective against qunari blades regardless— huge, razor-sharp spears and swords wielded by the strongest looking sons of bitches Hawke had ever seen. Not even the toughness of drakeskin was enough to outweigh the benefits of complete silence, though Fenris hadn't been in complete agreement about that. Hawke could still hear his lover's voice in the back of his mind, furiously hissing words Hawke understood only from their tone.

No, Fenris wasn't pleased at all. Hawke didn't exactly know what a _vishanti kaffas _was (Fenris would rarely deign to translate his cursing), but it didn't sound good, especially not when coupled with Fenris' deadly dark expression and extraordinarily bright lyrium markings.

It was actually a rather lucky thing that they hadn't met when Hawke first came to Kirkwall. If sneaking into a qunari compound in naught but thin cloth and carrying only four daggers (two large, two small and balanced for throwing) seemed crazy, Fenris would have had an apoplexy about the utterly stupid shitstorms in which Hawke used to find himself. Making a name for oneself in a nasty city like Kirkwall was difficult enough, but when one was trying to make a name as a hired killer, things tended to get messy. As he built a network of contacts, and then eventually found himself with a very canny dwarven businessman looking to keep someone of his skills on retainer, the jobs had gotten much cleaner.

Keeping low and slow, Hawke crept along a narrow ledge overlooking the compound. There was movement below, but very little— qunari weren't twitchy people, and Hawke planned on being particularly careful not to accidentally walk into one of the behemoths as they stood eerily motionless in the dark. Where the dockyard proper was a warren of shadowed alleys and occasional pools of warm, flickering light, the compound was as black as the Void itself; there weren't any torches or braziers lit, which wasn't necessarily a boon. Fenris had mentioned that qunari had rather sharp night vision, though not as good as dwarves… one more interesting factor to consider while trying to stay unnoticed.

He'd given himself a good buffer of time before the threat of sunrise, and wasn't about to treat this as a rush job. Slipping down among the shadows, using crates and crannies to his advantage, Hawke moved soundlessly toward the neat, vaguely opulent tent structure he knew from weeks of surveillance was the Arishok's private quarters. There were no guards outside the tent— there never were. Just the Arishok inside, presumably sleeping. This habitual lapse in ordinary security was either fortunate, or particularly worrisome, but according to Fenris, the idea that the Arishok should be guarded more than any other qunari was foreign to these dusky giants. And, Fenris had made sure to emphasize, the Arishok was not some soft-bellied, helpless diplomat.

Pausing outside the tent, counting his own breaths and sinking farther into the calm, detached tranquillity he always found while hunting, Hawke pulled a pair of small phials from his belt. Adjusting his mask, which was Tevinter design but augmented with some filtering fabric layered over his mouth and nose, he crept closer, finding a loose edge at the base of the tent and sliding his hand under. He blindly uncorked the phials and let the liquids spill, mixing together.

The smoke billowed out from around his wrist almost immediately, and Hawke snatched his hand back. It smelled of miasma, but only faintly, and the scent would not linger anymore than a quarter hour, even in an enclosed space. Unconsciousness, with temporary muscle paralysis for good measure, and no lasting stink to scream _assassin_— the recipe was something he'd been working on perfecting for years. The absence of drakestone and a few other key ingredients from the average smokebomb had required some inventive substitutions, as well as a specially chambered bottle if being carried and deployed as a bomb. In this case, however, a bit of a dribble onto the Arishok's carpet was good enough.

He still had the corks in hand, tucking them back into his belt, but he couldn't forget to pick up the phials before he made his escape. There could be absolutely no evidence left behind; the risk of qunari retaliation against the city, against the whole bloody Free Marches, was enough to turn his bowels to water if he thought too hard about it.

Waiting a few mildly tense moments, Hawke listened to the sound of lapping waves and the soft breathing of other qunari and some elves, sleeping together in larger tents nearby. His heartbeat was calm and steady. His muscles were loose and fluid.

It was time.

The most dangerous moment of the entire job, as far as he considered it, was entering the Arishok's tent. It was the movement that was mostly likely to get him caught if any other qunari happened to be looking his way. He also wouldn't be entirely convinced that the miasma had worked properly until he was face-to-face with a paralysed Arishok.

Just like the one he found in the haze of murky smoke, lying on a palette in the far corner of the tent. The qunari was the biggest Hawke had ever seen, with great, curving horns as thicker at the base than Hawke's thigh propped up with pillows for sleeping, and a massive, greyish-bronze chest partially hidden under blankets and furs.

The Arishok was also glaring at him through the gloom, with eerie, gleaming eyes hooded and dark with fury, but was making no other move.

For an instant, Hawke's muscles tensed to flee, but the qunari didn't so much as blink. Not a single twitch of those powerful muscles, and Hawke stayed just as still, like two statues staring each other down.

Not unconscious, then. That was a pity.

After a moment, Hawke was relatively convinced the paralysis had at least taken hold of the Arishok; expediency was now the order of the evening, since the miasma wasn't working as intended. There was no way to guess how long it might hold the giant still, and Hawke wasn't especially keen on field testing just then.

Moving quick as a snake, Hawke darted forward with a dagger already in one hand, and another phial in the other. This could still be a trap, the Arishok might be playing him, but there was no way in Thedas he was backing out now without at least giving this a try. He'd never get this chance again if he scuttled away.

Keeping a very wary eye out for movement of any kind, Hawke approached and squatted next to the prone qunari, dagger at the ready to at least hideously maim the bastard should he be forced to flee. The phial was set carefully on the blankets, next to the Arishok's chest (the qunari was huffing like a bellows, air hissing out his nose, but was otherwise as still as a corpse).

It didn't take much to open the qunari's jaw, though Hawke could tell from the sheer bulk of muscle he could feel under his fingers that if the Arishok had been at his best, there would have been absolutely no way to make the oxman open up. The paralysis was lax, not rigid, which was incredibly fortunate— Hawke had left his pry bar at home.

Whispered platitudes— _sorry messere, but it's just business_— were better saved for tales. Hawke was just as silent in this step as he was in any other of the evening, pouring the phial of milky poison between dark lips, tilting the Arishok's head back just enough to let the fluid slide down naturally. The qunari wouldn't choke, not with his muscles all but dead already, and the poison would begin taking effect almost immediately.

Hawke didn't make any effort to avoid the qunari's eyes, which had been stuck staring at the tent flap, just as frozen as the rest of him, until Hawke had moved his head. He watched through the shadows as the Arishok's gaze lost focus, his glare into the shadows fizzling into an almost confused look, then simply glassy. The massive chest expanded, stopped stutteringly on a final inhale, then slowly released one last time with a sound somewhere between a growl and a sob.

And that was that.

Hawke gathered up his phials, pleased to see the entirety of the liquid had burnt off into smoke, leaving not even the barest stain on the Arishok's thick reed mats. He lingered for a moment or two, just long enough to make certain the giant wasn't a particularly good actor; the qunari's heart was silent and still in his chest, but one could never be too careful.

Getting out of the compound unnoticed was just as difficult as getting in, and by the time Hawke found himself scaling the last few stairs up to Lowtown, it was past dawn and he was able to make a quick stop at one of the bakeries that would easily take his word he was good for the coin. With a fresh, hot loaf of bread wrapped up in a bit of cloth, Hawke meandered his way back home, having already discarded his mask in the harbour. Silk and linen meant he looked like your ordinary citizen… well, better dressed than your average Lowtown resident, but nothing terribly suspicious. It was also too early for most cutpurses to be out, and it was nice not to have to break any fingers on his walk.

Fenris was, of course, waiting up for him. It was more sweet than annoying, especially since Hawke found himself being pawed at the moment the front door closed behind him.

"Good morning, love," he said, quiet but cheery, as Fenris pushed him back against the door. Fenris' hands against his shoulders felt fiery hot after the rather brisk night he'd suffered— there'd been a bit of a chill in the air from the southerly winds, blowing in from the sea. "No problems, all sorted."

He might have said more, though Hawke rarely discussed details after the fact, but then Fenris was kissing him, firmly and a tiny bit desperately. Smiling into Fenris' mouth, Hawke curled his free arm around his lover's back, rubbing muscle soothingly through Fenris' thin shirt. It wasn't a long kiss, though Hawke did press for a bit of tongue before all was said and done.

"Bought some bread," he said eventually, when Fenris had pulled back just enough that their breaths mingled, lips almost brushing. "Is there jam?"

Huffing something promisingly close to a laugh, Fenris kissed him again, this time punctuated with a nip of teeth.

As it turned out, the bread was still quite lovely cold.

Eventually, after a bit of canoodling and some food, there was a sharp knock on the door. As Hawke had expected, it was one of Varric's urchin runners, and he sent the boy off with a brief note confirming his continued survival and his incredible skill, and with a thick slice of bread clutched in one filthy little hand.

Sleep was the next order of the day, and very soon after the boy had scuttled off with the note in his pocket and his lips sticky from jam, Hawke found himself blessedly naked, curled around a pillow while Fenris lay partially on his back, absently rubbing Hawke's ribs.

His sleep came easily and entirely untroubled.

* * *

><p>"—<em>fuck<em> yes, _harder!_" Damn it all, he'd liked this shirt, but now Hawke found himself digging his nails into dark grey silk, heedless of tearing. Fenris had him bound with it, wrists together and tied to a bedpost as he knelt on the mattress, and was currently in the process of fucking him to death.

Not a bad way to go, all things considered, and Hawke's body seemed to agree, pushing back greedily against every tooth-rattling thrust.

It was _so good_, better than any punishment had a right to be, but Hawke wasn't about to argue. If Fenris wanted to bugger him senseless as chastisement for flouncing off to the qunari compound without even the barest scrap of armour, that was more than fine. Peachy, even.

He could have wriggled free of the silk, but Fenris had tied him, and so he kept his struggling to a minimum. Even when Fenris refused to touch him, except to grip his hips, or pinch his nipples sharply, or pull his hair until his neck was arched back, open for the feral kind of mouthing with which Fenris was marking him. Even then, with his cock deeply red and aching for attention, for _mercy_, nearly fit to burst as he cursed and begged for _more, harder, Fenris_, even then he still kept the silk in place, twisting and thrashing against it.

When he came, _finally_, it was with Fenris' hand squeezing his prick, and Fenris' teeth biting hard into his shoulder, and Hawke was boneless and helpless against the mattress, his head buried in the quilts and his arms pulled taut, _roaring _a broken shout into the duvet. And Maker help the next Arishok that wandered into Kirkwall, because if this was what bagging that kind of mark earned him, Hawke might have to declare some kind of blood feud against the Qun. Or a cock feud. Or something.

"Maker," he panted, his shoulders burning from the stress of the bondage and the bite that was throbbing with his heartbeat, even as Fenris nuzzled against the toothmarks with soft, mildly apologetic noises. Flexing his fingers, Hawke untied himself with a bit of clumsy picking. "_Maker_, Fenris."

They managed to crawl back under the quilts, though it took a fair amount of manhandling on Fenris' part. Hawke just stayed a bit limp and let himself be dragged and positioned, ending up with his head cradled against Fenris' chest and their legs tangled together. _Very nice_.

He didn't even have the chance to start sinking back into sleep when there was a knock on the front door, for the second time in less than two days.

"That's it," Hawke groaned quietly, pressing his face against Fenris' damp, warm skin. "We're moving. This is ridiculous."

Pulling on trousers was a hideous injustice, and lazy, cursory bit of clean-up they'd managed meant Hawke still felt sticky and wet (which would have been utterly _fine _in bed for a few more hours, possibly the perfect start to a bout of messy sex after a while). Not bothering with a shirt, grabbing a dagger instead, Hawke scrubbed his face then raked a hand back through his sweaty hair as he padded out into the front room, Fenris beside him.

He had only a moment of silently debating whether or not to call out for identification, but then their visitor beat him to it.

"Don't make me get the picks out," Varric said from the other side of the door, not especially loudly, and rattled the latch.

When Hawke opened the door, Varric slipped in from the corridor without an invitation, wrinkling his nose after only a moment inside.

"See, this?" Varric motioned vaguely at Hawke's bare, rather... mussed torso and loose trousers, then waved his hand at the room at large, encompassing Fenris and the smell of sex that was still clinging heavily to the pair of them. "This is why I don't visit more often. You two are always going at it like nugs in heat, and I'm terrified to sit on anything in this place."

Hawke pushed the door closed, crossing his arms loosely. "Well, we've had sex on every single thing here, so I suppose that's fair. If you're truly concerned about that, though, _you _might want to invest in a new bed."

Varric narrowed his eyes, searching Hawke's face with a strange, blooming kind of horror. Then he turned, only to find Fenris glaring down at his own feet as if he'd stubbed a toe, flushed pink from his cheeks to the pointed tips of his ears.

"Oh shit, no." Varric looked back at Hawke, who smiled beatifically. "No. Oh _shit_."

It took the better part of an hour and a staggering amount of brandy to break the muttering loop Varric was then stuck in, but eventually it came to light that the qunari had left the city peacefully earlier that day, trudging smartly off into the wilderness, moving up the coast. Rather morbidly, they also left their dead Arishok behind, just left out to rot, and the rumour was that the Coterie had already swiped the qunari's massive horns. Possibly with his head still attached, possibly not.

So the qunari were dealt with, the deal was done, and Hawke would be donating a portion of his usual percentage of payment for services rendered.

Apparently, he was buying Varric a new bed.

It was completely worth it.


End file.
